The Intruder
by Imitating Licentiousness
Summary: One-shot. Molly comes home to find someone waiting for her, and it's not Sherlock.


**Author's Note: **I own nothing. This story is not related to _Pray _or _Stopover_.

* * *

_Long day_, Molly thinks to herself as she trudges up the stairs to her apartment.

Too long. There's been a pair of teens in the morgue today, barely recognizable from the car wreck they had caused. Molly originally assumed it was alcohol, but after toxicology reports that revealed no alcohol was in their systems, she'd called Lestrade, gotten the details and evidence from the wreck, and had put the clues together and realized that the accident wasn't a result of drinking, but texting.

Molly shakes her head, trying to clear it of the image of the two seventeen-year-old girls on metal slabs, their hair matted with blood, the misaligned bones ... So stupid. So pointless.

_Put your damned phones away_, Molly thinks.

Days like this, she hates her job. Something so simple, so preventable, but people are foolish, especially young ones who think they will live forever. Molly knows better.

Molly unlocks her door and steps inside, pausing to hang her keys on the hook next to the door. It's a moment too late when she realizes that she feels it. That eerie, unsettling feeling that tells her, quite plainly, that someone else has been in her home. The air is too still; the atmosphere is not right. She's come home like this before, known _he_ was there. But this time, as her fingers linger on her keys, she knows it's not him. It doesn't smell right. There is something lurking here, something dangerous, frightening, and ready to hurt her.

The blow comes unexpectedly, before she can turn around. No time to think. Molly tries to keep her balance, but the fist against her face is hard, spinning her, and she goes to her knees. No pain yet, just the surprise of the impact.

On her knees, Molly frantically tries to scramble back to her feet, away, but her assailant is fast and grabs her by the collar of her coat, yanking her backwards. Molly slips her arms out of it and turns, swinging her arm around, fingers curled in and thumb out, hitting him straight in the nose with the flat of her palm, pushing upwards, just like they taught her in self-defense.

The man grunts and stumbles backwards a bit. Molly has seen him now – a tall man, wide-set shoulders, and built like a Humvee. Close-cropped hair, obvious military background, thick eyebrows, and eyes that hold no warmth. Molly turns, fleeing toward the bedroom. She makes it just inside the door and tries to shut it, but he's already got the full weight of sprinting down the hallway behind him and she can't shut the door in time. He hits the door with a thick shoulder, sending her falling backwards. Molly smacks the back of her head on her vanity chair and groans when she tries to catch herself, pain blossoming through her elbow when she hits it on the floor, all her weight on it. Her vision blurs for a moment, the back of her head throbbing, but she wills herself not to pass out as her assailant kicks her side.

It hurts, more than Molly could ever expect. She's seen the films, where the hero gets kicked in the ribs and he has the wind knocked out of him a bit, but gets back up shortly. This is not how this feels. Three kicks in and Molly knows she's fractured her rib, and can't catch her breath. Can't get in a breath. The pain is too fierce, too paralyzing. But through some miracle, she is still thinking. Molly sees his foot coming, and it lands the blow, but Molly forces herself to concentrate through the onslaught. She catches him by the ankle, wraps her arm around the back of his knee, and yanks. As he falls, she twists underneath his leg, taking her heel, hitching her knee forward and kicking it up, right between his legs.

The man wildy roars some curse. Molly kicks her leg back again, knocks it home. The man rolls onto his side, groaning piteously, but Molly ignores it.

_GetupMollygetupMollygetupMolly_

She crawls out of the doorway, hurrying to get on her feet in the hallway. He may be down, but it won't last long; these kind of men are usually trained to ignore pain, despite the fact that Molly has perhaps ruined his future chances at children.

Clutching her side, Molly hurries back into the kitchen. She can hear him breathing, heavy steps down the hall, as she grabs her sharpest knife from its home between the oven and counter. It _zings_, and she holds it out in front of her, other hand protectively covering her ribs.

He comes round the corner, standing just out of her kitchen.

"Put the knife down, little girl," he says, his Cockney accent thick.

"Why are you here?" she demands to know.

"Sebastian Moran's outfit," he answers, leering at her. "We caught up with Sherlock Holmes."

Panic for Sherlock fills Molly, and her eyes widen before she can stop herself. Mistake. The man uses her momentary shock to lunge forward. Molly's left hand goes for the freezer on top of the fridge, flinging it forward, hitting him squarely in the face. He falls, but his hand reaches up and grabs her fist, bending her fingers back until Molly cries out in pain and drops the knife. He grasps it, and Molly retreats, grabbing her skillet off the stove. Even as the knife goes into the outside of her right thigh, deep, she is bringing down the skillet. It hits his head with a resounding _clang_, and he drops to the floor, eyes half open, but still breathing. He is dazed, but not unconscious.

Molly works fast. On her knees, she pats him down. _Where is it? Where is it? _The gun is tucked into a holster beneath his armpit. Some far-off corner of her mind wonders why he didn't use it first. Hand shaking, she checks the weapon. It is loaded, and her thumb flicks the safety off.

The man stares up at her, those cold eyes flashing. "You don't have it in you. You don't have what it takes, to kill me."

Molly looks at the gun, then at him. "You're right," she tells him. "I don't ."

She aims the gun, and shoots him in both shoulders.

* * *

Later, Lestrade asks her for the three hundredth time if she is all right. Molly is about to nod, and then realizes John is not finished with the stitches at the back of her head from where she hit the vanity chair. Her eye is swollen shut, jaw bruised, and her nose and lip are split and bleeding. Her elbow and two ribs have hairline fractures. The adrenaline has worn off, and she is feeling the full effect of the pain.

"It just doesn't make any sense. He's obviously ex-military, a mercenary. Why would he come after you?" John says while he neatly ties up the stitches.

"I don't know," Molly answers.

"It almost as if he thought you'd know something, something about Sherlock. But why? He's been—" John stumbles over the word, still—"gone, for over a year." John looks over at Lestrade.

"I don't know, John," Molly says again quietly. "Maybe he's just someone left over from Moriarty's network. I just don't know. I have a headache, and I'd like to get some sleep."

"Of course," John tells her. "I'll go see about getting the discharge papers."

He opens the curtain and slides it shut behind him, leaving Lestrade wincing down at Molly. She gingerly fingers the bandage around her elbow.

"Are you going to be all right?" Lestrade asks her.

"I'll be fine," Molly assures him. "Maybe take a day off work, let the soreness pass."

"You know, Molly, I never did get a chance to tell you how sorry I was about him."

Molly shakes her head. "It was our loss, all of ours."

"Yes, but … I know you … felt for him."

Molly doesn't want to talk about this. She feels guilty, of course, about lying to everyone, but more than anything else, she _misses_ Sherlock. He might as well be dead, and the mental image of some broad, terrible mercenary like her attacker standing over a dead Sherlock fills her so with terror that the heart monitor beside her beeps loudly as her pulse quickens. Hastily, Molly unclips the sensor from her finger as John reenters.

"You're all set," he says. "But I don't want you going back home, not after all that's happened."

Molly shakes her head. "If I don't go back home now, I won't have the guts to do it later."

John and Lestrade exchange a look, but say nothing.

"Do you want one of us to stay on your couch?" Lestrade offers.

"Thanks, but no," Molly says. "I'm going to be fine, really." She carefully eases her legs over the side of the hospital bed, taking John's hand to help her stand.

Both men stand on either side of Molly's shoulders, shuffling along with her as she moves achingly down the hallway of the hospital. Molly stares down at the floor, trying not to think about how much effort it takes to breathe and walk. She looks up for just a moment, and has to recover quickly to hide her shock.

Mycroft Holmes is standing on the other side of the nurse's station. His suit, as always, is impeccable, and Anthea, ever-present, stands beside him tapping away on her phone. He sees Molly looking at him, inclines his head towards her, then turns and strides out of the hospital, Anthea close at his heels.

Molly makes it home shortly before the sun breaks over the horizon. Lestrade and John comb through her apartment, making sure no more assailants are lurking in the shadows. Both want to stay, but after Molly's consistent refusals, they reluctantly leave.

Usually Molly doesn't like taking medication unless it's absolutely necessary. In this case, she feels like she deserves it. She practically melts out of her clothes and into a nightshirt, swallows two pain pills, and damn near falls into bed. She sleeps, she's not sure how long, but she's woken by the sound of the door rattling.

Absolute horror fills her, and she tries to get up, but the medicine has made her groggy, and the room swings to the side as she pushes herself off the bed, causing her to fall to her knees. The pain in her side is so acute it very nearly causes her to wretch. Palms flat on the bed, she tries to pull herself up, but the world rocks again and she's suddenly facedown against the mattress.

"Molly," a baritone voice says frantically, "Molly, what happened?"

A hand runs down her back, at her shoulder, trying to help her turn over. She cries out.

"Hold on, hold on!" Clutching her side, she manages to turn herself over, eyes squeezed shut tight. "I'm sorry, it just hurts to even breathe."

"Broken ribs." Sherlock looks down at her, seeing everything. "Fractured elbow. You bit through your lip when he hit you." He runs a thumb down her jaw. "Let me see your teeth."

Molly grimaces as she unclenches her jaw enough for him to see.

"Nothing chipped. Nothing loose?"

She shakes her head no. "What are you doing here?" Her voice sounds far away, even to her. The drugs are far stronger than she had anticipated.

He's running a hand over the bandage on her thigh from the knife wound. Molly vaguely remembers changing into an oversized T-shirt before she hit the bed, but she's too dazed to care much that she's standing in front of the man she loves in her boy shorts.

"Mycroft told me." His hands are at her neck, checking for bruises.

"Why didn't he just shoot me?"

"Go back to sleep, Molly."

"Sherlock, why? He said he'd caught up with you. He had a gun. He could've just shot me."

Sherlock sits down on the bed, looks down at her. "There is a man I'm close to finding. Sebastian Moran. They caught up with me in Berlin. Moran picks people on his team for their sadism. Your assailant would've tortured you long after you'd told him everything you know, for his own pleasure."

She frowns, tries to sit up. "I would never tell anyone anything."

"I know that, Molly."

"Are you almost done?"

He shakes his head no. "Not yet."

"How long can you stay?"

"Not long. It puts you at too much risk, and I will not see you harmed again. After I leave, Mycroft will have guards outside the building. You will be safe."

"I wish you were finished." She can't stifle her yawn. Then, "I miss you."

"I know. Go to sleep, Molly. I'll be here when you wake."

She wants to stay awake. She's trying to fight it off.

He brushes her hair away from her face. His hand lingers. "Sleep."

She does.

* * *

When she wakes, Molly wonders if it was some dream, some figment from her subconscious to torture her. Did he really come to see her? It all seems so unreal. She struggles to sit up, and turns to see Sherlock lying next to her on his side, eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

He's stayed. Molly can't help but smile.

She tries to lie back down so she doesn't disturb him, but those blue-green eyes open, see her smiling at him.

He smiles back.


End file.
